Snap . . .
by Furidasu
Summary: Memory? Or Pictures?


Snap . . .  
  
I had taken another photograph into artificial memory. As the mechanically warm polaroid slid out of the device held tightly within my addict-like shaking hands, I flapped it instinctively. It didn't help the gray, undefined blob within the center of the polaroid to clear up. But I merely told myself that we all do it. We all just do things, don't we? Breakfast comes natural to some, and others can't help picking up that apple for an afternoon snack. We just remember things and we trust that our memories are helping us.  
  
Photographing is a strange thing though. It's almost like holding a gun. One can't shoot blindly. There's no point to that. There's a whole world around the world. You take as many angles as you can fit into that restricted, four-sided box, and snap. Even the most outrageously unimportant details seem to balance everything out. Well, it does for me. When two people are singled out by a camera's attention, what's happnening besides them? A child picks up a balloon, a woman shamelessly beats her crying daughter, and an old man walks happily with a bird. In between them, two people stand having their pictures taken.  
  
Snap . . .  
  
It's a funny thing when regarding what we remember. We don't really remember anything, do we? Let's think about it. Remember your first kiss? I do. It was soft but passionate. Sweet and divine beyond anything else. Simply incomparable. Now take a look at this . . . yeah, it's the picture of my first kiss. I was a joke. A nerdy target for the risky dares of the popular, but it was decades ago. Have I remembered? If I had, I should have forgotten. But I didn't. It was just different everytime I told the story. Now, it has become the sweet tender kiss from a truest love.  
  
But then we have this . . . a simple photograph. How reliable is it? It captures the exact moment. A split second has been cross-sectioned and taken under a microscope. A glimpse of infinity created all by mankind. But it's nothing else. It's just a picture. Take a look at this one . . . his blood is gushing out from the gun wound and nothing can stop it. He seems like an old, crippled man who was mercilessly killed. Someone stands with a incredulous look on her face as she merely stares. A black, cold-hearted gun is slipping slowly from her grip. Such brutality from a human to another. But from who to who? Where can we capture that?  
  
Snap . . .  
  
Another picture surfaces from the mouth of the machine and I do my usual flapping. It is set aside as I pick up my old picture. The photgraph is now slowly forming into something concrete. Something definable. Something does fade when we stare at photographs though. It's our memory. We rely on the instant clip of life and we shove aside our cognitive belief that we had seen the truth. My memory did blur too. My wife's alive. I'm sure she is. Somewhere in my mind, I knew I had held her soothingly warm body close to mine. She gave me a serene smile and whispered into my ear as I whispered back. We told each other that we loved each other. She gave me a short kiss from her pouty lips as she stepped back. Her blue sweater and purple skirt flowed naturally as it wrapped itself easily around her. Giving me the smile of angels, she departed with a good luck to me, and promised to be back in my embrace soon.   
  
That was only a few hours ago when I left for work. I looked back at the picture and saw what it had to give though. She won't be warmly back in my embrace. Her sweet words will echo into nothing instead of my ears, and I could only give love but never receive anything in return. Her clothes are stained with decay and the smell of smothering death, and her dejected, lifeless stare chilled my life. Will I shake my memory away while this polaroid sharpens? I don't want to. I don't want her to die in my memory like she is dead within in the picture. But can I argue with a photograph? It . . . after all . . . doesn't capture everything . . . it's a glimpse of infinity.  
  
Snap . . .  
  
She is in my embrace again. My lips bent down and met her lips. They were cold, bitter, bloodless, and unresponsive. But she's here with me again. Rather soon too for no wait is too long for her. Neither my memory nor the photograph was incorrect. It only took an hour to dig through six feet of dirt to confirm this. What do you think? Memory or photograph? 


End file.
